the splinter

high on a thirty two
foot ladder
a splinter
finds
it's way
beneath
your skin, along
the fat
of your thumb
as you push
sandpaper
across a
ragged board.
there is blood,
some pain,
but not enough
to stop
what you are doing.
you pull
the splinter out
with your teeth
and spit it away,
you suck
the blood with
your mouth
slowing
the bleeding.
you wrap
a rag
from your back
pocket around
the fresh wound,
and keep
going. the sun
is low
in the sky.
it will be dark
by five.
you think about
the time she said
to you, why are you
so worried
about money,
you'll just
paint more
houses.